There's a Storm: Luke 8:25

The disciples are in the boat.  The wind is howling, the waves are crashing, Jesus is sleeping.

They trust Jesus.  They've left their homes, their livelihoods, their past selves behind.  They are following him.  Isn't that trust?

But wind, waves, wet, cold. And sleeping.

If they'd really trusted him, they'd have let him sleep.

Storms are where we get the chance to test our trust.

Thank you God for storms?  Maybe not.

But definitely thank you for Jesus, who even in his "sleep" is trustworthy.

Living in a Fantasy World - Trusting God

I was trimming some Siberian Irises the other day, busily working along when suddenly I remembered ... Oh my goodness, I am standing with my back to a six foot sheer drop.  The drop is created by the window wells my family dug years ago to bring light into the basement.

Mind you, I was very safe.  I had both feet on the ground and was bent over so even my center of gravity was low.  But for a moment, I felt a mild vertigo.  I was afraid I'd fall.

The danger, most of it, didn't really come from the window well.  It came from my anxiety about the window well and whether or not I would forget and misstep. (I know: Churchill said it bunches of years ago "We have nothing to fear except fear itself.")

While I was in the Fantasy World, totally unmindful of the sheer drop 9 inches away, I was really pretty safe. And I was getting stuff done, the stuff that needed to be done.

My point is that trusting God can have some of the same effects as living in a Fantasy World.  It allows me to concentrate on the task at hand without indulging in anxieties about all the "what ifs" connected with my present position.

Jeremiah and Idol Worship

There are some real problems with reading through the entire Bible: one of them is named Jeremiah. Jeremiah is a really angry guy.

Jeremiah spends about twenty-five chapters describing the destruction that is about to arrive. (This destruction thing has me a little worried since in 2012 politicians on both sides are also screaming “The end is near … unless you vote for me.) In Jeremiah’s time, God was sending destruction against his own faithless people. Jeremiah is pretty obsessed with Israel’s unfaithfulness. At one point, Jeremiah compares God’s faithless people to a wild she-donkey in heat, running around the desert looking for any male to mate with. Not pleasant reading.

Fortunately, this doesn’t apply to me. I don’t, as Jeremiah 25:6 accuses, follow other gods to serve and worship them. I have never prayed to a statue, never sung a song to a statue. That is what an idol is, isn’t it?

Unfortunately, the nature of an idol becomes clearer the longer I think about the second half of verse 6: “do not provoke me to anger with what your hands have made.” While I don’t carve wooden statues and cover them with gold, I do make stuff with my hands (money) and I put it in the bank. I’m pretty sure I don’t worship money.

Of course, I have sometimes wished for a better life. If I work a little harder and make a little more money, I hope to myself, then everything will be better, right? How many times have I gotten worried about how I am going to cope with this crisis or that? It isn’t what I want to spend money on, but at least I have the security of a savings account.

I’m not guilty of singing praise songs to money, but I certainly “trust” money and seek “money” and “hope” in money in ways that are, as Jeremiah would point out, idolatrous. Faithless Israel; faithless me.

Jeremiah is an angry prophet, but also a hopeful one. He relays God’s promise, the one so many parents and grandparents have quoted so often, “For I know that plans I have for you, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you and hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you.” (29:11-12). Even when we are unfaithful, God's purpose is to renew relationship with us.

Living in Limbo

I got semi-fired last month...I'd been employed full-time (excellent pay, great benefits) and got knocked back to part-time (still satisfying work, but for substantially less money). Worst of all, it's possible the full-time job will come back . . . or not.  (Can you say complicated institutional politics?)

Anyway, I admitted to myself yesterday it is depressing the ... I was going to say "hell out of me" but mostly it's depressing the initiative, drive, self-discipline and all those other valuable commodities out of me.  I'll survive, but this last month hasn't been fun.  The next one doesn't look promising.

Thanks for listening to me whine.  Grading papers is waiting for me.

Money and the Fantasy of Control

Last night I was giving very wise advice to my 19 year old son. There is a position that he has applied for and it is very important to him to be chosen for the position. But he has very little control over the choice and even feels that another candidate has certain advantages.

"I'm so worried, Mom," he said to me. And in my wisdom I gave him advice.

"Think of this as an opportunity to trust God. Every time you start feeling worried, just turn your thoughts to God and choose to trust him." Never give advice, especially spiritual advice. It always comes back to bite you.

This week Tim and I have been trying to finalize the decision we are making about wall ovens. We have set aside enough money that price is not an issue. That only makes it worse. We want to choose the "best" oven. Hah! The reviews on Consumer Report's so-called "Best Buy" claim that CR got it wrong this time.

Pick an oven - ANY OVEN. Someone will love it and someone else will have had nothing but trouble with it from the moment it entered the house.

And so I'm worried - very worried. Can you hear my son chuckling? "Mom, this is an opportunity to trust God."

Hope, Mortality and Lunatic Prophets

My younger son was so impressed with a book he read in his First Year Seminar class that he recommended it to me. On Hope by Joseph Pieper, is a daunting looking little volume that has been on my pile of "to be reads" for longer than I care to admit.

When I finally opened it, my hope was renewed.

Early in the book, Pieper makes a distinction between natural hope, the gift of youth, and supernatural hope, a theological virtue. As a 53 year old woman I have spent the last 3+ years wrestling with my increasingly unavoidable mortality. Natural hope has died a slow and painful death.

Ezekiel, that fanatic of the Old Testament, is another one who had his struggles with hope. Ezekiel prophesied long after Israel had gone through its own version of the Civil War following Solomon's death. Years after the great north/south split, the northern kingdom was conquered and carried off into slavery. Then, it appeared that the south -Judah- would suffer a similar fate.

Ezekiel's chief concern, however, was not the overthrow of the nation of Judah. Ezekiel was appalled by the faithlessness of the people of Judah. Women were worshiping Tammuz with their tears, men were facing east in worship of the sun god, even the Temple was filled with images and objects reflecting the worship of other gods (from Anderson's Understanding the Old Testament).

Ezekiel's call was to individuals . . . to "turn, turn from all your offenses and your iniquity will not be your downfall" (18:31-32). Suffering was an opportunity to return to the God who loved them, the God who had redeemed them out of Egypt and had given them a new home.

What does all this have to do with hope? In spite of the faithlessness of the Judeans, Ezekiel expressed hope for the future. In chapter 47, Ezekiel sees the vision of a river flowing from the temple in Jerusalem. This river flows so wide and deep and strong that it flows down into the Jordan river valley and continues flowing down to the Dead Sea. This river from the temple refreshes that sterile sea to the extent that fishermen will line the banks with their nets.

This is hope. Ezekiel's hope came from a vision. Mine came from a book. For though natural hope disappears as quickly as youth, supernatural hope has its well-spring in the faithfulness of the living God. Supernatural hope is grounded in our longing for the eternal life with God.

At 53 I am reminded over and over that half of my life is gone. That reflects the death of "natural' hope. Supernatural hope reminds me that no matter how long I live, that time is short compared to the future I will spend with God, the God who redeemed me out of my personal Egypt.

Functional Atheism

According to Parker Palmer in his book Let Your Life Speak, 'functional atheism' is "saying pious words about God's presence in our lives but believing, on the contrary, that nothing good is going to happen unless we make it happen." (p. 64)

I never like to admit that I want to be God, because of course I don't want to control the universe - only every piece of it that affects me . . . my kids (my husband, my friends, my dogs . . . ). And the hard facts are that though God may have created this world "good," I see a lot of people succeeding who lie and cheat. I see a lot of people suffering who are kind and generous.

This is not a new thing. After the divided kingdom (600 or so years before Christ) Nahum and Habakkuk had watched Assyria brutalize every nation it conquered. Nahum had predicted the defeat of this barbaric and powerful kingdom, but the religious reformation of Josiah crumbled and the dream of a reunited Israel died when Josiah was defeated (and probably executed) in battle with the Egyptians who unexpectedly joined forces with the Assyrians.

Habakkuk cries out,
"How long, Yahweh, must I cry for help,
and you don't answer,
shall I cry to you 'Violence'
and you will not deliver? . . .
Therefore torah (the Law) is feeble,
and justice does not achieve its end.
Habakkuk 1:2, 4

There is a real temptation to be an atheist under these circumstances, to storm away from a God who doesn't live up to our expectations.

Parker Palmer experienced this in the midst of a severe depression. Many 'well-intentioned' people offered him advice, trying to help him get "better." No one wanted to deal with the pain he was experiencing.

There was an exception, a man who came to visit him each day and spent time with him, massaging his feet. This friend offered no advice but was willing to tell the truth about the trial Palmer was suffering. If Palmer was having a tough day, he'd acknowledge it. If he seemed stronger he'd comment. But he didn't play God, he didn't try to make Palmer get better.

There is a lot of wisdom about friendship in that paragraph, but the more essential thing is that there is a lot about Christianity there. Our most faithful response to the world is honest compassion toward the pain of others (and ourselves).

Pain reminds us that we are not God. Our pain and the pain of others. All pain is a reminder of our limitations.

The choice we often make with pain is to be 'functional atheists,' claiming with words to believe in God but relying on our own actions. Getting busy. Fixing it. Atheists trust no one. And it is very possible to wear the mask of Christianity and refuse to trust.

The other possibility is to stand with Habakkuk. Built into Habakkuk's complaint is the assumption that God is good. Later in the book (3:2) is the phrase, "I have heard of your fame; I stand in awe of your deeds." In those few words are captured one of the essential aspects of true faithfulness, the willingness to remember not only present troubles but also past miracles. In the face of pain it is critical to remind ourselves that this present trouble is not our only experience of existence. Each of us can recall the birth of a child, the reunion with a loved one, the achievement of a goal that reflects God's goodness.

We must hold on to these evidences of God's blessing. We must stand with Habakkuk, actively trusting God's goodness and his action in our world, his world.

Not Sex or Alcohol

On a recent Sunday morning, our pastor included in his prayer a sentence about gratitude. “Thank you, God,” he said, “for forgiving us our sins.” He went on to talk about how grateful we are that through Jesus’ sacrifice our sins have been forgiven.

I have to tell you, I felt a little misrepresented.

I’m not all that grateful to be forgiven; it is a flawed system.

In a perfect system, I would need no forgiveness. Everything I did would be right. Not only that, everyone around me would know that I had done the right thing and would appreciate, perhaps even be a little awed by, my deeds.

In an almost perfect system, God wouldn’t forgive me. My little misdeeds would be so small that he would excuse them as not worth worrying about, just little technicalities. Of course, everyone around me would agree with me and God that I was perfect, or so close to perfect that the difference did not signify.

This kind of fact-fudging is typical of people who are actually trying to do what they should. It isn’t the slackers in my class who will argue whether or not an answer is right; it is the A, actually the A+, students who have hard time admitting failure.

Which lead me to the title of this piece. The great temptation of our culture is not sex or alcohol, it is self-righteousness. The motto of Americans everywhere – I can be anything I set my mind to, I can do anything I want to do– brainwashes us into believing in our own power, our own strength. If we try hard enough, we can be perfect.

And this temptation is even greater for us Christians. We have a standard that we are trying to live up to. We may not manage it twenty-four hours a day. In fact, our good intentions may not last much past Sunday dinner, but we are trying. That should count for something, right?

Wrong. All the efforts in the world count for nothing if they are ladders on which we climb our way into heaven. I think this is part of what Paul is talking about when he calls Jesus a stumbling block. The first century Jews weren’t looking for forgiveness, they were looking for vindication.
Righteousness, SELF-righteousness, is not a new issue. In a sermon to the Israelites, Moses cautions them all against thinking “it is because of my righteousness that Yahweh has brought me in to possess this land.” (Deut. 9:4) It is hard work accepting grace because it requires me to give up the fantasy that I am – or could be, with just a little work – perfect.

Too Much To Do

I have been trying to post a new entry on the blog twice a week, but over the next two months I am going to be working under a challenging deadline at work and won't get back to this until early July. Thank you for stopping by. Come back in July.

Cheery-O

Leash Challenged

Maxie is an eight year old miniature dachshund. The color of a grill-blackened frankfurter, she lives up to the nickname Wiener Dog.

This little bundle of fur is our huntress. Since the yard isn’t fenced, we have a forty-foot long rope tied to the corner of the deck. The hook end lives just outside the sliding door, waiting for Maxie’s whimpered signal that she needs to go out. The minute she is released she sniffs the air, rushing to follow the trail of the squirrel or bird or cat that has passed through the yard. She would hunt it into the next time zone . . . if she hadn’t been leashed to the deck.

Part of the system works really well. Maxie does remain firmly confined to our yard. But, because the bird feeder is on a pole and the maple tree is nearby, it is a rare occasion when Maxie manages to return to the slider to be let in. Usually she gets herself completely tangled up, her neck straining against The Leash which has somehow woven itself so tightly around trees and poles that she can’t even move.

At this point she begins to bark, noisily and with a decided note of scolding. The demon-possessed Leash has once again managed to grab her by the throat.

When she was a puppy, I would unsnap the leash and hold her in one hand while I unwrapped the rope. But the energy and strength packed into that little dachshund body have required a new approach. I have to coax her around the obstacle course of trees and poles – the required number of circles in the required order. When she is completely untangled, I pronounce the magic word “Okay” and she races toward home in a frenzy of freedom. She has no idea how I have exorcised the demonic powers of The Leash; she only knows that once she was ensnared and now she is released.

Over time, Maxie has come to have a certain amount of faith in me. She looks puzzled as we perform our strange little un-tangle-ment ritual, but she follows. Each time we work together, I think about the things God asks me to do and how meaningless they sometimes seem.

I find myself tangled up in quarrels or financial problems or health issues. Some of the problems I, like Maxie, have created; some are the result of the fallen world we live in.

Eventually, I end up feeling grabbed by the throat. So I stand and yap scoldingly for God to come rescue me. God coaxes me through paths that I don’t understand, sometimes calling me round and round the same dumb maple tree until I’m dizzy. It makes no sense.

And I wish to goodness God would pick me up in strong arms and carry me away from my troubles. But that wouldn’t require me to exercise faith in His wisdom and goodness.

God grant me the grace of a leash-challenged dachshund to follow where I am led, to trust the one who loves and cares for me, and to celebrate with joy my daily release from the entanglements of sin.

Taking Down the Apple Tree

It was a summer afternoon about ten or so years ago. Daniel and Thomas were helping their grandpa take down the diseased apple tree that was an eyesore in the back yard. Axes were flying and I was worrying; worrying is what I do best.

“It scares me that I can’t protect them “from suffering.” I said, meaning Daniel and Thomas. This comment to my father was about axes, but it was also about disease, divorce, depression. There are so many things we can’t protect our kids from.

Without missing a beat Dad replied, “The really powerful witnesses for Christ are those who have experienced catastrophes - drugs, alcohol, disabling accidents.” (Dad is legendary for his comforting answers.)

That answer has haunted me for years. If my kids have to suffer to be powerful witnesses for Christ, I think I'll pass. If my friends have to suffer, I’d like to pass on that, too.

One of the painful things about the Sunday prayer time at my church is that it reminds me week after week about my friends who are suffering. Honestly, I’m not big into suffering. Why does it need to be so much a part of our lives?

In my reading recently, I have been reminded that Israel’s slavery in Egypt, their suffering in the wilderness, and their battles to enter the Promised Land all drove them back to a dependence on God.

The suffering in our lives makes our relationship with God real. It is one thing to learn about Jesus in Sunday school, to talk about him to fellow believers, to present him with a daily laundry list of prayer requests. But the suffering in difficult times confronts me with a concrete, here and now, choice: trust God to take care of me or don't trust. Trusting is hard.

Faith in God is not belief in a body of knowledge, not something you can learn from a book, or a Sunday school teacher, or even a parent. Faith in God happens when I, personally, choose to be in relationship with him.

Suffering isn’t the only way that happens. But it is one important way.

Apocalyptic Groveling and Golden Retrievers

In the book of Revelation, the fawning adulation of the twenty-four elders, the thousands of angels, and the four strange creatures dominates the story. When you hear the verses movingly declaimed from the pulpit, they do sound quite religious, quite worship-y.

But, to me these passages have always seemed more awful than awe-full. First, there's the whole sucking-up aspect. These creatures are already in heaven, what is it they are hoping to weasel out of God with all this bowing and scraping?

Second, I wonder where any sense of personal dignity has disappeared to. "Get a life," I want to shout to them. "He's holy. We get it, but what about you? Leave off the groveling and do something, be something."

And then one day recently my golden retriever Herie (sounds like Harry), prostrated himself in front of me. The word prostrate brings all kind of negative associations, but Herie had something to teach me about submission. Herie lowered the front half of his body - his tail wagging the entirety of his back end - and gazed up at me with happy eyes. He was saluting the God of his universe. She feeds him, she provides him with comfy blankets on which to sleep. She washes him and cuts his nails - these are not fun for Herie but he seems to realize they are good for him. She even throws his toy squirrel for him to retrieve.

Herie's bow, his 'worship,' was about him as much as it was about me. Sure, he acknowledged me as superior. But he also affirmed his identity. His head is the one that shows up in my lap for petting the minute I've finished dinner. He is my faithful protector, curling up in the hallway where he can keep an eye on me and mine. He is my tail-wagger and front-door barker.

Herie's bow summed up that relationship in one graceful move. Submission isn't the same as cowering. Inequality can result in resentment and suppressed rebellion. However, at its best submission acknowledges inequality while affirming reciprocity.

All of that makes it sound boring. What Herie has taught me about submission is that it is full of pleasure and energy. I read the fourth chapter of Revelation with new eyes. This is no somber ceremony, this is a celebration -- joyful, hopeful, and, above all, playful.

The Bottom of the Chasm

My doubts about the afterlife affect me like standing at the top of a very high cliff, terrified. It doesn't matter that I'm positioned at a reasonable distance from danger. It feels like I am being magnetically attracted toward the edge.

I've been at the bottom of this chasm. It happened when I was very young, perhaps seven or eight. I had been scouring the family bookshelves, looking for interesting things to read. Of course that was somewhat strange, since there weren't many things I could read yet. But I ran across a picture book full of pictures of a bride and groom that turned out to be my parents.

My mom didn't mind explaining who all the people were and I enjoyed looking at the people in fancy clothes. Suddenly, it occurred to me that someone was missing.

"Where am I?" I asked, a little put-out since I was used to figuring prominently in family pictures.

Mom paused for a moment and then explained, "You hadn't been born yet."

It took the words a moment to sink in, but when they did I felt alone and isolated, felt like I was being whipped by a violent wind. Looking back, it was almost as if I were at the bottom of a deep chasm, isolated by an unscalable cliff. I pushed the feeling aside, hoping I'd misunderstood.

"But where am I?"

"Your dad and I weren't even married yet. We got married and then, fourteen months later you were born." She recited the history, apparently unaware that she still hadn't answered my question. Where was I? How could there have been a time when I wasn't? All my life had been lived in the middle of existence. This notion that there could have been anything -much less a whole world where people got married - before I existed was very unnerving.

That, however, has been confirmed by other folks, aunts and grandmothers and family friends, who had had the audacity to exist before I did. Even history books bore witness to the fact that there was a time when I was not. There was a time when my parents and grandparents were not.

So what? Well, this is a sword that cuts both ways. It could be evidence that one of these days there will be a time when once again I am not. But, it also testifies to the absolute unpredictability of the reality we call home.

If God could have brought me into existence from nothing, he is quite capable of making me a home in a different reality. It is a space that, for lack of a better word, we call heaven.

A Small Miracle Every Morning

It may be age, it may be increasing interaction with folks who don't share my belief in an afterlife. Whatever it is, with each year that I get closer to "heaven" I have an increasing struggle to believe it is there.

My favorite theologian happens to be my husband and his answer to this replicates his answer to all my doubts, "If Christianity were based on knowledge, it wouldn't be a 'faith.'" While logically correct and theologically profound, this answer is staggeringly unsatisfying to a woman who wonders where she'll be going when she is gone.

Thankfully, the Holy Spirit (or somebody) has placed a faith in God's goodness in my heart. And, in spite of the holocaust and my ancestors' contribution to slavery and my country's continuing neglect of the poor, I do believe in God's goodness. So that is a place to start.

And, noticing the indicators of God's presence in my life helps. There are roses and peonies and daisies and dandelions -- all of them witnesses to the principle of life God has engrafted in his creation. Rain falls. The sun shines. My husband comes home for dinner another night . . . in spite of all my failings and the operation of gravity on my 53-year-old body.

But the main heaven miracle I am hanging onto is the one that happens daily. Each night my head drops to the pillow, grateful for respite from dirty dishes and ungraded papers. Some nights, when I am uncharacteristically rested, I face the darkness of sleep for the abyss that it truly is and hesitate. The hesitation expresses itself as anxiety about tasks to be done or worries over events I can't control. But the night-time fear is fundamentally a fear of the abyss, it is a fear of nothingness, of dissolving into non-existence.

That abyss is an opportunity to act in faith. Each night as I close my eyes on the world, I cease to be. Doctors and psychologists can argue this point, but my experience is that I cease to be. It is a scary prospect, and the temptation is to use worry as an inner-tube to avoid the descent. But eventually, I always let go and sink into sleep.

Miraculously, each morning I resurface.

Each morning I wake up renewed, always myself and more than myself. Each morning I am a tiny manifestation of heaven, that great awakening on the other side of a deep abyss.

Maxie wants to Talk

My dachshund keeps looking at me with her head on one side. She is telling me to speak more slowly and clearly and use words she understands. She wants to communicate (largely because she has hopes it will result in food or snuggling).

I should teach her more words. It would make her happy.

Answering the Charge: Religion Sponsors War and Other Injustices

This material comes from the book by Timothy Keller, The Reason for God: Belief in an Age of Skepticism. New York: Dutton, 2008.

In the section Titled "The Church is Responsible for So Much Injustice," Keller quotes Hitchen's argument that "religion takes racial and cultural differences and aggravates them" (55). Keller admits that Hitchen's argument is valid. "Religion 'transcendentalizes' ordinary cultural diferences so that parties feel they are in a cosmic battle between good and evil" (55). Of course, if you are at war with evil it is pretty easy to justify violence and destruction. And we all can point to examples.

Keller cites Alister McGrath's rebuttal of this argument against Christianity. "The Communist Russian, Chinese, and Cambodian regimes of the twehtieth century rejected all organized religion and belief in God. A forerunner of all these was the French Revolution, which rejected traditional religion for human reason. These societies were all rational and secular, yet each produced massive violence against its own people without the influence of religion. Why? . . . when the idea of God is gone, a society will 'transcendentalize something else, some other concept, in order to appear morally and spiritually superior. The Marxists made the State into such an absolute, while the Nazis did it to race and blood. Even the ideals of liberty and equality can be used in this way" (55).

Chasing Immortality and the Absurdity of Certainty

Over the last several years I have been wrestling with death. The closer I get, the more honest I become about my faith in God as opposed to my knowledge about the future --including heaven and (what is referred to in Christian circles as) salvation.

My humility about what I do and don't know has led to real anxiety that the atheists have a lock on truth/reality not to mention courage since they are willing to admit that death is the end. A while back I realized that for many atheists, the finality of death may be as much wishful thinking as heaven is for Christians. Maybe it would take more courage for an atheist to contemplate facing God.

This week as I thought about what I learned in Geology at SMU from Wendy Williams dad (I was thinking about this course because I was wondering if Thomas would take Geology at Hope from Ed Hansen, our friend), I remembered the detailed slides Dr. Williams showed about the evolution of the reproductive system. I, admittedly predisposed to it, found myself completely skeptical about the evolutionary history of reproduction. It looked like some observation plus a lot of hopeful rationalization. Clearly, the atheistic view places as much "faith" in evolution as I do in God.

At the time this felt like a proof of God. It isn't that.

It is a reminder that all knowledge is based on what we know and what we want (or believe or desire) to be true. The atheists believe that their position is stronger than mine, just as my evangelical friends truly believe their position is stronger than the atheists.

I, wise person that I am, recognize the absurdity of certainty.

A Book Worth Reading

James Reston's Dog's of God is a fascinating history of Christopher Columbus, his discovery of the new world, and the overarching context of those events -- the Inquisition and the expulsion of the Moors.

I discovered it through a daily email I receive from Delanceyplace.com.

Depression and "Pure" Relationships

An article in Christianity Today explained that relationships in our culture have become increasingly "pure," that is, increasingly "detached from any social context, external structure, or security." The impact of this is that "there is no covenant, community, or being [I think the implication here is that our commitment to God creates a sort of covenant or community] to orient the relationship or provide ongoing assurance, direction, and support."

All of the energy to continue a "pure" relationship must be generated within the relationship itself, and that can be a significant burden sapping strength from the participants in the relationship. The maintenance of one of these relationships is exhausting, because we can never relax. "There is no pledge of fidelity or constancy on which to rest."

And constant vigilance takes its toll. Since we cannot be renewed by the relationship but most be continually renewing the relationship by our "perfection," we have to draw strength from elsewhere. Enter the fast-food culture of quick fixes - chocolate, escape through movies or video games or shopping, alcohol and other drugs.

Why should I get married, join a church, start a book group? Relationships based on commitment help us eliminate distortions in our thoughts about ourselves. Members of a group give each other a sense of belonging that counteracts the depressive's sense that he or she is not as good as others. Spouses provide a safety net when the depressive feels incapable of facing the future. And a member of a community, whether church or book group, has evidence on a regular basis that she or he is of significant value to others.

This is just my summary of the article The Depression Epidemic by Dan G. Blazer, a Professor of Psychiatry and Behavioral Science at Duke University medical center - but I thought it worth sharing.

Foreign Wives and 401(k)s

I was reading, again, the part of Ezra where the Israelites are confessing their unfaithfulness to God which has resulted in intermarriage with the surrounding nations.

This has always deeply offended me.

Today, though, I realized that wives and children represented very different things to this culture. Children were one's legacy - one's immortality, almost. To relinquish one's children was an incredibly humbling thing to do. These men were effectively bankrupting themselves, not just in terms of their honor and significance, but also with respect to their "retirements." Before United Auto Workers and Social Security, children were your pension plan, your 401(k). To send these children back to their mother's families was to relinquish significant wealth with no hope of recovery.

And the wives were like good credit ratings. If a man got into real trouble, his wife's family was very likely to pitch in and help him get back on his feet. It would cost him, of course. Even relatives seldom give stuff away - but it was an economic lifeline that was critical within that social structure. (Added 3/31/09) The fundamental economic nature of marriage is confirmed in Nehemiah 10:30-32. Not marrying pagan people is the first in a list of commands of the Lord the Israelites promise to follow. All of the other commands they promise to follow involve money or property.

Of course, this all reflects a much less egalitarian society. Nevertheless, if we are to understand the passage, we have to see that as the Israelites attempt to rebuild the Temple, they are prepared to give away most of the resources they have relied on up to that point.

There is a lesson in there somewhere.

Duty - to me or to God

My son has helped me become alert to the fact that many of the things we attempt to offer to God are really just convoluted ways of feeding our own self-image.

Case in point: I am working my way through a 2 year bible, reading a little each morning. As of today, I am almost two weeks behind and I caught myself this morning using time I didn't have to catch up. Normally, I would have subconsciously congratulated myself on this little task, the catching up and being on the right day. But with my son's words ringing in my ears, I realized this catching up is actually just a way of getting an A in the "God class." Years in the school system have made me a grade-chaser.

So, I pushed back my chair and consciously chose to be the B student that I am -- a grade that reflects the priority I put on making time each day to connect with God.

I expect God appreciates the honesty more than being caught up.

And I will try to offer him a faithfulness in the future that puts my time with God higher on the priority list.

Sheerah - Ephraim's Daughter

From the New American Standard Version of the Bible, I Chronicles 7:21-24

Zabad his son, Shuthelah his son, and Ezer and Elead whom the men of Gath who were born in the land killed, because they came down to take their livestock.
22Their father Ephraim mourned many days, and his relatives came to comfort him.
23Then he went in to his wife, and she conceived and bore a son, and he named him Beriah, because misfortune had come upon his house.
24His daughter was Sheerah, who built lower and upper Beth-horon, also Uzzen-sheerah.

Nobody ever told me about a woman in the Old Testament who built three cities. It makes me wonder about her family, about the brothers who were raiding the livestock of Gath and got killed for it.

Was she trying to please her father, to make up for the sons who were lost?

Was she angry, running away from a man who never valued her to find a way to value herself?

The Bible is a surprisingly eloquent record of events, good and bad, in the lives of people who clearly struggled with many of the same issues we struggle with.
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Hawking and Dawkins not so revolutionary

Atheism tends to trumpet its materialist view (there is nothing except that which is physically, measurably present) as though this were some revolutionary idea that reflects society's increasing awareness of the "realities of the universe."

So, it was reassuring to read in Acts 23 that Paul used the conflict between materialists (Sadducees) and those who believed angels, spirits and in the resurrection of the dead to disrupt the council sitting in judgment on him.

As I near my fifty-second birthday, I find it harder and harder to conceive of an afterlife. But I continue to believe in it.

Lord, help my unbelief.

The Shack - A reading journal

I finally read The Shack. I had, up to this point, resisted because these "in" books among "christians" tend to leave me cold. I found The Shack was interesting because the author used God to articulate (pretty clearly, in most cases) my theological beliefs.

In fact, the author (using Jesus as his speaker) made one really good point: to be redeemed by God is to learn to "live loved" (p. 175 - In the Belly of the Beast chapter). One of the most humbling and validating things in my life is being truly loved for who I am - not who I think I am, or who I am planning or trying to be, but just the person that I actually am. And there is probably only one, maybe two, people who know me well enough to really love ME.

The people I know who are truly miserable have never had the courage to let go and be loved. Most of them have good excuses based on past experiences. But it makes me sad and angry at the same time to watch these miserable folks refuse to be loved -- they take everything that is offered to them as something they have somehow earned or "deserved". This kind of loving always has its roots in God/Goodness because it refuses to be sidetracked by hurts and failures. And IMO that kind of love comes from a source that is greater than I am.

Having said that, I find the whole quasi-fictional set-up hokey. It is convincing only to those who want to be convinced. The character Mack raises questions - but he doesn't really QUESTION God. The light always goes on for him way to quickly.

Monkey Business vs. Philadelphia Story

Recently I watched the movie Monkey Business with Cary Grant and Ginger Rogers (also Marilyn Monroe) and wondered why it was so flat, so unappealing as a story.

I suspect it reflects the lack of any real problem at the beginning of the movie. Grant (Dr. Fulton) is happily married to Rogers (Edwina Fulton) and the only unresolved issue is the formula for a "fountain of youth" drug he is in the process of developing.

The drug becomes the gimmick for creating a lot of foolish scenes with various characters acting childishly. But it strikes one as simply absurd.

By contrast, the Philadelphia Story is rooted in Grant's opposition to his ex-wife's (Hepburn's) coming marriage to an unsuitable husband. There are relationships that we care about and can root for.

Four-Stars - Philadelphia Story
?? - Monkey Business

Done for Now - "No Friend of Mine"

My family hadn’t been gone long. At least it didn’t seem long, though I have to admit, a nap never seems long unless I wake up with my joints stiff. My job is to be awake when they walk in the door, to bark and sniff and bounce about with “eager enthusiasm,” a job I’ve always enjoyed though it seems like a lot of effort these days.

When our minivan reaches the crest of the small hill before our house, it’s as if the noise suddenly turns on, like a doggie alarm-clock. Time to get up and say hello.

They hadn’t been gone long and the whole family went together, even though it wasn’t Sunday morning. Yes, we do know what day it is, not so much the names of the days as the patterns. Monday morning is a kid and parent scramble with backpacks and lunches. Breakfast is scheduled for efficiency rather than fellowship: each person eats breakfast when he is ready for it. On Saturdays, everybody moves about as fast as a pile of sleepy puppies. Sundays are in between, not so much scramble, no backpacks, but I can always tell a Sunday by the shoes, stiff and shiny and without that lovely human smell.

Going outside when they arrive is also normal, outside to do my “business.” Shouldn’t they realize that it is easier for a guy my age to hold it for a few extra hours than it is to stumble down the deck stairs to the lawn? Dad didn’t take me to the back yard, though, and that was weird. Nice weird; the joints are particularly stiff after a good long nap.

Dad took me to the front yard. Mom was there, too, and the boys, Daniel and Thomas. Mom yelled, “Tynie, Come. Come meet your new friend.” Of course I came because when I was a pup Dad (or sometimes mom) spent a half hour every evening walking up and down in the road in front of our house saying “heel” and “stay” and “sit” and “come.”

There was a new smell, near mom. “Come,” she said again, just because I was a little slow getting there.

The new smell, like popcorn, started up the engine in my tail. My tail’s the one part of me that is still a youngster. It wasn’t really a popcorn smell, not that buttery. It was more like fritos. Snack times are great times to nose a hand for pets; stuff always falls to the ground. The smell was making me feel young again, so it was hard to lie down when Dad gave the command. “Down,” Dad commanded a second time and raised his right arm, his voice so deep and gruff, that my legs bent themselves to lower me to the ground.

The frito smell, definitely fritos, drifted down from a bundle in mom’s arms as she knelt beside me. “Tynie,” she said, “meet your new friend. This is Maxie.” I raised my nose to say hello to my new friend, but the little warm thing scrambled higher on mom, whimpering.

“Down,” Dad reminded me. My nose was so hungry for the smell I could hardly stay still. My front paws were glued to the grass, I kept thinking about them because Dad’s grumbly voiced echoed in my ears, but my tail kept swinging so hard that my back half sometimes snuck off the ground. You’d think the stiffness would help keep me still, but somehow it doesn’t work that way.

Next thing I knew, Mom was on the grass beside me and I could just reach Maxie with my nose. Um-umm. Delicious isn’t the right word, because not all smells need to be eaten. But such a lovely smell was that little Maxie – I couldn’t get enough. I was just getting a good sniff when Maxie whimpered again. Dad pushed my head down and held me still. The small thing, the Maxie, was held next to me and I could hear little snuffle noises as mom said, “See, Maxie, this is Tynie. There’s nothing scary about him.”

A dog has his pride. I’m not as strong as I was, but the squirrels and the doves always disappear pretty fast when I’m around. Nothing scary, hmph. Maxie was sniffing me, all over, I might add, while my nose was immobilized. The Maxie was quite the perfumery, though, and little whiffs of fragrant Maxie kept floating my way.

That was it, though. Next thing I knew, we were going back to the house. I followed Thomas into the laundry room, like normal; two seconds later I heard the door click shut and I was alone with the two clothes-eating, rumbling metal monsters that live in the smallest room in the house. The Maxie thing was with MY family in MY dining room. I could hear them.

The worst of it was that after being allowed out of the laundry room for a little while – Maxie and I did our little doggie dance, sniffing each other a little, then backing up, then sniffing again – I discovered that the sleeping arrangements had been changed. Of course, I’m old enough to have learned to cope with changes. Daniel doesn’t sleep on the floor with me anymore. The best, of course, was when Thomas and Daniel both slept on the floor with me; we had some very comfy-cozy sleeps together. My spot is right next to Daniel’s bed, close to the others but in Daniel’s room where the sound of his breathing is like a lullaby. Not tonight, though. Tonight, I was in the laundry room. With Maxie.

“Here’s your new friend, Tynie,” Mom said as she closed us in together. I couldn’t even snuggle with Maxie. It would have been good to sleep with my nose near all that warm puppy smell. Nope, Maxie was in her crate and she got the good smelling things – a pair of socks from Daniel and one of Dad’s undershirts.

I settled myself by the crate, resigned to my new spot. I wondered if Maxie’s breathing would have the same soothing effect as Daniel’s.

Nope. Maxie had only been in her cage a couple of minutes when she started whimpering. That only lasted a couple of minutes, though. Then she began howling with serious intent. I kept waiting for Mom or Dad to come and do something about it. No luck. Maxie would wear herself out from time to time and sleep. But moments later, at least that’s what it felt like when I was awakened from a sound sleep, she would start up again.

Maxie was the most inconsiderate, unmannerly beast I had ever met. At least the squirrels had the decency to run away. And this one, Maxie, was supposed to be my friend?

It is one of the rituals of my morning, the first trip outside to although things this morning were not proceeding in a business-like fashion. Maxie, again.

At my age, it requires a little walking around to get the machinery up and running to do my business. I started toward the far side of the yard to see if Alex was out, checking the ground for the scent of doves and juncos and other ground-feeding birds. Sometimes there is scat from mice or chipmunks or voles. Today it was a pile of rabbit pellets; a guy likes to stop and smell the roses, if you know what I mean.

Of course, Maxie had to rush over and stick her nose in things. She looked pretty ridiculous; her back legs kept overtaking the shorter front legs, so that by the time she got to the good stuff she was running sideways.

Maxie has to sniff everything – she’s all nose. Of course, her nose got too close, so she shook her head and sneezed, then put her nose right back where it was before. Youngsters have no sense.

I was beginning to hear nature’s call, so I meandered over to the wild cherry tree near the back of the yard, and squatted. I never have understood why all the guys have to lift their legs for a relatively simple operation. It looks very awkward: I admit I had some urge to do it when I was younger, but good sense triumphed. I was just musing that the next time one of them called me grandma, I would ask them why they all are auditioning as windmills, when I noticed movement by my rear leg.

Can a man have no privacy? There she was, the scamp, by my rear paws, inhaling as though I was dispensing the fragrant river of life. I started to snap at her, give a guy a little room, I said, when it became clear that she had required a little inspiration herself. She leaned forward, bending her rear legs in the time-honored pose and produced her own little rivulet.

I nodded to her – it doesn’t hurt to encourage the youngsters – and then moved on. I was really hoping to avoid an audience for the more awkward of the two businesses, so I crossed the yard quickly. Moving fast actually encourages the process. I have wondered if a better system couldn’t have been developed; bending my knees, rotating my hips forward and raising my tail requires a significant amount of concentration. None of the hinges moves smoothly any more. But, I had just managed to achieve the precarious position necessary to the process, when Maxie raced across the yard in her funny sidewise fashion and arrived, her nose on full alert. By the time I was comfortably upright, she was walking around, turning in ever smaller circles until finally she, too, achieved that precarious posture. Mom showed up just in time to ooh- and aah. I began to wonder if Maxie has produced something truly special, but trust me, it was peanuts, hardly anything at all. If anyone has a right to brag, I thought looking at my own handiwork, it isn’t that little pup.

By the time she was four months old, Maxie knew what it meant to go for a walk. Any time she heard the leash rattle, she would run around in circles, prancing, and leaping up with her front paws, whimpering and making the odd noises that passed for barking. She loved to walk.

The day of the Rottweiler was like that, Maxie whimpering at the door as mom brought in our leashes. Mom walks us both; I’m on the right side, because I can be trusted to heel without chasing after anything that moves. Maxie still tends to rush forward when a bunny scoots under a bush or a leaf blows. She lags behind when a piece of food or garbage beckons. from the asphalt. A little yank on the leash is all it takes and she is walking by mom’s side, looking up as if to say, “That wasn’t really me wandering off like that.”

As we walked along our normal route, the collie at the corner escorted us past her house walking the inside of the chain link fence as we walked the outside. The chihuahua in the two story house made his usual yapping noises, perched on something that let him see out the picture window. When they make all that racket, Mom calls it leash envy. I think they just want to go for a walk.

Maxie walks well for a kid with legs that are clearly factory seconds. Her Tappety, tappety, tappety matches my slap, slap, slap, three steps for one. That little body with its low center of gravity corners like a sportcar, but I catch her in the straightaway – these days anyway. She made me look pretty slow at first. A dog worth his milk-bones can’t stand for that kind of thing. Not that she was ever a boaster.

“Catch me if you can,” she’d bark and take off across the yard.

The first time I caught her she rolled up like a ball. My legs were too stiff to stop fast, so I just trotted on by.

“Hey,” she barked.

“Got better things to do than chase a pup with legs that look like they were stolen from an undersize weasel!” I hollered back.

“You’ve got great legs,” she said. I looked at her quick, to make sure she wasn’t being sarcastic. She stepped back and eyed my legs, her nose traveling up and down. “I’ll never be able to run like that.” She’s not really a friend, but we get along okay. And, chasing her in the backyard definitely improves my appetite. I think she runs straight just long enough to keep me going, then the next thing you know she’s made a U-turn and I’m chasing nothing but oak leaves and butterflies.

Our walk was later than usual, that day. Most of the kids were home from school. The collie at the corner must have gone inside while her kids were having snacks – she didn’t patrol the fenceline with us. The chihuahua barked like we were storming the house with a troop of German Shepherds. Mom never pays any attention to them.

Mom had yanked my leash a couple of times. Lately, I’ve been feeling kind of peppy. Sometimes when we’re in the yard I take off across the grass and bark for Maxie to catch me if she can. So, when mom yanks on the leash I remind myself that it’s easy to get ahead of a human and a dachshund if you aren’t paying attention.

The leaves hadn’t started turning, but geese were moving back and forth across the sky in their slinky flying vees. The leaves hadn’t turned yet; red and orange and yellow were huddling off-stage, waiting for their cue. September is like that. You could hear the hiss of brakes as school buses stopped to drop off kids. The smell of grain ripening and squash mellowing hovered in the air. Autumn with its bright days and crisply cool evenings was coming soon.

When the Rottweiler came roaring out of the garage, I was thinking of warm naps in the fall sunshine. It is very disorienting to be roused from a pleasant daydream and face an angry snout that is ugly in three directions. That snout was as wide as it was tall as it was deep – and every ounce of it snarling and snapping.

In an instant, my hackles went up. The Rottweiler snapped and missed. Maxie raced round Mom’s legs, her leash tangling with mine. I shifted position to guard mom and Maxie, making sure that my trunk was between them and the beast. He was lunging and growling, but always stopping short of contact. Finally, I wound up and let out a series of barks, which started quite high in my register and ended in a loud, low growl. Then I realized that mom was speaking and as the Rott began to back away, I realized that I had heard someone calling Captain. I looked up and saw a teenage boy come over and grab the dog by the collar. He shook the dog fiercely as he dragged him away.

When I looked for Maxie, who seemed to have disappeared, Mom leaned over and put her back on the ground. “She’s all right, Tynie,” Mom said. “I picked her up.”

Mom reached down and scrubbed my chest up and down. “Good dog, Tynie,” she said, and then, “Heel, Maxie,” and we were walking again.

I guess she’s not all that bad, I thought, as a looked over at Maxie. Who’d have thought I’d try to protect her? Rottweiler offered to take her off my hands and I had to scare him off. Tynie, you are one very mixed-up canine.

Autumn had been replaced by winter and a peaceful snooze in the sun was once again a regular part of my day. In fact, I was wondering where the little pest was, she hadn’t bothered me in at least an hour. I was laying on my side so I lifted my head to look around and see if I could detect where the little pest was. Then I realized that the warm spot near my heart had a long snouted, floppy eared explanation.

“Stop wriggling,” Maxie said in a sleepy voice.

“Ho, there,” I ask. “What are you doing up here?”

“Warmest spot in the house,” she said, “though not the softest.” She started kneading my shoulder as though to soften it up with her front paws, and then lay down again. “But you are a Class 1 furnace.”

I looked at that little runt, and remembered my run-in with the Rottweiler. “Class 1 bodyguard, too, huh?” he replied.

“Biggest wuss I ever saw,” Maxie said. Who me? I wondered. Maxie went on. “I can’t believe that dog was afraid of you.” She panted a little, her doggie laugh.”That Rottweiler must have been wearing a fur coat, cause he’s yellow for sure.” I raised my head and gave her a lip curl; I thought about snapping at her close enough to scare her.

“Don’t try that tough guy act with me, you old marshmallow.”
“Marshmallow,” he yelped, then cleared his throat so he could bark in bass, “Marshmallow!”

“You are big, strong, smart and brave,” she said, then gulped as the memory of that racing Rottweiler came back. “Very brave, thank you. But you are the nicest dog in the world. That Rottweiler had nothing to be afraid of.”

“Unless he was stupid enough to hurt you,” I said. “Or mom.”

“Yup,” she said. “He wasn’t as stupid as he looked.”

I moved my shoulder a bit so she would have a nice place to put her head, and then told her, “You’re a nice friend.”

“Friend,” she yelped. “I’m no friend of yours. I’m family.”

Humph was all he said as he dropped his head to the ground. She sure was a yippy little mutt. The sunshine warmed his face as they lay together. He could hear her even breathing. He lifted his head to look at the little trouble maker, nudged her flopping ear back in place with his nose and dropped his head back to the ground. Hmph.

A Doggy Love Story - Revised Opening

No Friend of Mine

My family hadn’t been gone long. At least it didn’t seem long, though I have to admit, a nap never seems long unless I wake up with my joints stiff. My job is to be awake when they walk in the door, to bark and sniff and bounce about with “eager enthusiasm,” a job I’ve always enjoyed though it seems like a lot of effort these days.

When our minivan reaches the crest of the small hill before our house, it’s as if the noise suddenly turns on, like a doggie alarm-clock. Time to get up and say hello.

They hadn’t been gone long and the whole family went together, even though it wasn’t Sunday morning. Yes, we do know what day it is, not so much the names of the days as the patterns. Monday morning is a kid and parent scramble with backpacks and lunches. Breakfast is scheduled for efficiency rather than fellowship: each person eats breakfast when he is ready for it. On Saturdays, though, everybody moves about as fast as a pile of sleepy puppies. Sundays are in between, not so much scramble, no backpacks, but I can always tell a Sunday by the shoes, stiff and shiny and without any good people fragrance.

Going outside when they arrive is also normal, outside to do my “business.” Shouldn’t they realize that it is easier for a guy my age to hold it for a few extra hours than it is to stumble down the deck stairs to the lawn? Dad didn’t take me to the back yard, though, and that was weird. Nice weird; the joints are particularly stiff after a good long nap.

Dad took me to the front yard. Mom was there, too, and the boys, Daniel and Thomas. Mom yelled, “Tynie, Come. Come meet your new friend.” Of course I came because when I was a pup Dad (or sometimes mom) spent a half hour every evening walking up and down in the road in front of our house saying “heel” and “stay” and “sit” and “come.” There was a new smell, near mom. “Come,” she said again, just because I was a little slow getting there.

Revising Scene 1, sketching out Scenes 2&3

Scene 1 – Old, stiff jointed, obedient, grumpy Tynie. Maxie the invader

My family hadn’t been gone long, at least it didn’t seem long though, I have to admit, a nap never seems long unless you wake up with your joints stiff. And they all went together, even though I’m pretty sure it wasn’t church. They didn’t get all dressed up, then leave right after breakfast. I don’t mind when they’re gone; I just look for a quiet place to rest. It’s normal when they leave, normal when they come home.

I heard the car. It’s as if the noise suddenly turns on as the car reaches the top of the small hill before our house. Of course, then the garage door opened and the car rolled in – all pretty normal stuff.

Even taking me outside was normal, in a way, because the grown-ups always take me outside the minute they walk in the door. Sometimes the boys forget, but Mom and Dad always remember. They didn’t take me to the back yard, though, and that was weird. Nice weird; I didn’t have to try to get down the stairs from the deck to the yard without stumbling. It didn’t used to be so tough.

Dad opened the door and called me with him to the front yard. Mom was there, too, and Daniel and Thomas. Mom yelled, “Tynie,” and of course I came because when I was a pup Dad (or sometimes mom) spent a half hour every evening walking up and down in the road in front of our house saying “heel” and “stay” and “sit” and “come.” As I got close to her I noticed a new smell.

As soon as I got near mom, dad told me to lie down. “Down,” he said. The new smell was very interesting and I wanted to find out where it was coming from.. “Down,” Dad commanded and raised his right arm. When he raises his arm, his voice gets deep and gruff. That means he’s serious, so I eased myself onto the grass being careful not to twist my hips too much. The smell drifted down from the bundle in mom’s arms and mingled with the rich green smell from grass which had been crunched by people feet. . The only part of me that isn’t old is my tail. The smells had turned on the tail engine and it was thwapping against the ground.

I couldn’t help the tail. Mom knelt down with something small and warm and fragrant in her arms. As soon as I raised my nose to get a snout full, Dad growled “down” again and the little warm thing scrambled higher on mom, whimpering. My nose was so hungry for the smell I could hardly stay still. My front paws were glued to the grass, I kept thinking about them because Dad’s grumbly voiced echoed in my ears, but my tail kept swinging so hard that my back half sometimes snuck off the ground. You’d think the stiffness would help keep me still, but somehow it doesn’t work that way.

Next thing I knew, Mom was sitting on the grass beside me and my nose could just reach the richest part of the warm smell. Buttery almost, or like really velvety fritos. (Not that I get many fritos.) I was just getting a good sniff when dad pushed my head down and held me still. The small thing, the maxie, was held next to me and I could hear little snuffle noises as mom said, “See, Maxie, this is Tynie. He’s nothing to be afraid of. (what deprecating thing, mildly insulting thing can Mom say?)”

Nothing to be afraid of! I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted, but my nose really didn’t care. My nose was furious that the maxie got to sniff me, all over, I might add, while my face was pinned to the ground by people that were supposed to be my family. The maxie was quite the smeller, though, and little whiffs of delicious maxie kept floating my way. As she sniffed my front paw, I tried to move my head nearer to this Maxie thing. But Dad was too fast for me and pushed my head away from it, her, I think. The scent was more baby than feminine, but there was a decided pinkness.

That was it, though. Next thing I knew, we were going into the house and I followed Thomas into the laundry room. Two seconds later I heard the door click shut and I was alone with the two clothes-eating, rumbling metal monsters that live in the smallest room in the house. The Maxie thing was with MY family in MY dining room. I could hear them.

The worst of it was that after being allowed out of the laundry room for a little while, I discovered that the sleeping arrangements had been changed. I have gotten used to the fact that Daniel doesn’t sleep on the floor with me anymore. The best, of course, was when Thomas and Daniel both slept on the floor with me. We had some very comfy-cozy sleeps together. I am not a puppy any more, and so I’ve accepted my spot by Daniel’s bed. Not tonight, though. Tonight I was in the laundry room. Me and the Maxie.

The Maxie wasn’t whimpering anymore. She was squalling. Hard to believe that much noise could come out of an object that puny. Clearly the maxie had no manners at all.

964 words to here.

Scene II – Classic love story, hate turns to love.

What to do with this scene to make it lively?

Nagging him to play. There was no question she was female. Seems like every moment was filled with her noises. It would start during my morning nap, little happy yips. I could ignore her pulling on my tale or nudging my belly with her nose. (she’s trying to get him to play). But when she started yipping in my ear . . .

Nagging him about food – guarding hers (as though he would steal it, he may not be as goodlooking as he once was, but no one had ever before suggested that he wasn’t a gentleman.

squeaking toys in his ears

moaning after she steals his food, and eats too much, complaining that her belly hurts.

Resigned to make the best of a bad sitation, his people like her, he has to put up with her. Going with her for a walk – protecting her from a Rottweiler, german shepherd, what? Surprises himself that he wants to keep her safe. Notices that he’s feeling perkier than he has on a walk in a really long time.

Scene III

waking up and wondering why she isn’t pestering him to play. Looking all around, realizes there’s a warm spot on his side, near his heart. She’s stretched out (glad he kept his youthful figure, otherwise she would have slid off) on his back.

20 More Minutes on Tynie & Maxie

Tynie and Maxie

(I've made some changes to the first draft and then added some to the story. Underlined text has been added, strikethroughs are deletions. )

My family hadn’t been gone long, at least it didn’t seem long though, I have to admit, a nap never seems long unless you wake up with your joints stiff. My joints don’t get stiffThat doesn’t happen so much any more. It may have something to do with , not since they started feeding me the scoops of peanut butter they give me with the crunchy bitter pill thing in the center. Anyway,But, it didn’t seem to be a long trip. And they all went together, even though I’m pretty sure it wasn’t church because for churchthey didn’t they get all dressed up, and leave right after they ate eat breakfast. It isn’t often they all go together. I wondered where they were going, all together like that.

I heard the car come down our street., tThere’s a small hill before our house, so the sound comes suddenly, like it just got turned on or something, after they crest the hill. Of course, then the garage door opened and the car rolled in – all pretty normal stuff.

Even taking me outside was normal, in a way, because the first thing the grown-ups do when they get home is take me outside. Sometimes Daniel and Thomas forget, but Mom and Dad always remember. Not to the back yard, though, and that was confusing. DadMom opened the door and called me with him to the front yard. Then Mom and Dad called me over, there’s a new smell I thought, to him her in the front yard. As soon as I got near mom, dad told me to and made me lie down. “Down,” he said. The new smell was very interesting and I wanted to track it downfind out where it was coming from.. “Down,” Dad commanded and he raised his right arm. When he raises his arm, his voice gets deep and gruff. so I knew he was serious,. Sso I lay down on the grass, which was soft and rich smelling from all the feet crunching on it. It was hard not to wriggle, because my nose wanted to taste the smell and it seemed to be coming from somewhere up high, near mom, maybe.

(New text starts here).

I wasn’t wriggling very much when mom knelt down with something small and warm and fragrant in her arms. As soon as I raised my nose to get a snoutfull, Dad growled “down” again and the little warm thing scrambled even further away, whimpering. My nose was so hungry for the smell I could hardly stay still. My front paws were glued to the grass, I kept thinking about them because Dad’s grumbly voiced echoed in my ears, but my tail kept swinging so hard that my back half sometimes snuck off the ground. You’d think the stiffness would help keep me still, but somehow it doesn’t work that way.

Next thing I knew, Mom was sitting on the grass beside me and my nose could just reach the richest part of the warm smell. Buttery almost, or like really velvety fritos. (I don’t get many fritos, but one makes it to the floor occasionally.) I was just getting a good sniff when dad pushed my head down and held me still. The small thing, Maxie, they called it, was held next to me and I could hear little snuffle noises as mom said, “See, Maxie, this is Tynie. He’s a nice old dog. (what deprecating thing, mildly insulting thing can Mom say?)”

Not fair, I thought, as a I tried to move my head to get a quick whiff of this Maxie thing. But Dad was too fast for me and pushed my head away from it, her, I think. The scent was more baby than feminine, but there was a decided pinkness to the aroma.

That was it, though. Next thing I knew we had gone in the house and I had followed Thomas into the laundry room. Two seconds later I heard the door click shut and I was alone with the two clothes-eating, rumbling metal monsters that live in the smallest room in the house. The Maxie thing was with MY family in MY dining room. I could hear them.

The worst of it was that after being let out of the laundry room for a little while, I discovered that the sleeping arrangements had been changed. Instead of sleeping on the floor in Daniel’s room, like usual, I was again in the laundry room, me and the Maxie. The Maxie wasn’t whimpering anymore. She was squalling. I found it hard to believe that that much noise could come out of an object that puny. Clearly the maxie was very spoiled.

I have gotten used to the fact that Daniel doesn’t sleep on the floor with me anymore. The best, of course, was when Thomas and Daniel both slept on the floor with me. We had some very comfy-cozy sleeps together. I am not a puppy any more, and so I learned to accept sleeping in Daniel's room without them beside me. He's there in the bed, I keep reminding myself. But, to be left in the laundry room with the maxie seems cruel and unusual punishment for wanting to get a little snoutfull of new smell.

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Drafting a Love Story - 20 minutes

Tynie and Maxie

This is my first love story, based on one of the love story possibilities from the first exercise.

Explain the story first – it will help you get started finding your way inside the story where you can do more showing and less telling.

Tynie was about 11 years old, he had arthritis in his hips, we were afraid we would have to put him to sleep (strange phrase, that, which refuses to admit that we hold power of life and death over our animals). Our miniature dachshund had had to be put to sleep a couple years earlier when he threw his back out. So we were looking at being dog-less in the near future.

We decided to get a mini dachshund puppy – she was red and so affectionate that you wanted to hold her every minute of every day. She was so small she fit in Tim’s hand when we brought her home – her body fit in his hand with legs and tail and head spilling over like a dachshund waterfall, bouquet, like a floppy doll, like a what . . .

The story is from the point of view of the Golden Retriever. We need to get inside Tynie’s head. This is a classic flip-flop love story, from hate and annoyance to love and tenderness.

Details – maxie’s arrival, how she looks, maxie’s mistakes, maxie afraid, maxie nipping at me begging to play.

* * * *

My family hadn’t been gone long, at least it didn’t seem long though a nap never seems long unless you wake up with your joints stiff. That doesn’t happen so much any more, not since they started feeding me the scoops of peanut butter with the crunchy bitter pill thing in the center. But, it didn’t seem to be a long trip. And they all went together, even though I’m pretty sure it wasn’t church because they didn’t get all dressed up, and leave right after they ate breakfast. It isn’t often they all go together.

I heard the car come down our street, there’s a small hill, so the sound comes suddenly, like it just got turned on or something, after they crest the hill. Of course, then the garage door opened and the car rolled in – all pretty normal stuff.

Even taking me outside was normal, in a way, because the first thing the grown-ups do when they get home is take me outside. Sometimes Daniel and Thomas forget, but Mom and Dad always remember. Not to the back yard, though, and that was confusing. Mom opened the door and called me with him to the front yard and Dad called me over, there’s a new smell I thought, to him in the front yard and made me lie down. “Down,” he said. The new smell was very interesting and I wanted to track it down. “Down,” Dad commanded and he raised his right arm so I knew he was serious. So I lay down on the grass, which was soft and rich smelling from all the feet crunching on it. It was hard not to wiggle, because my nose wanted to taste the smell and it seemed to be coming from somewhere up high, near mom, maybe.

Twenty-five kinds of love stories

When we think of "love story" we invariably think of boy meets girl. It is interesting to try to come up with 25 story situations that, at some level, qualify as love stories.

1. musician, e.g. violinist/violist, "in love" with a particular instrument they cannot have/afford
2. child's love for an animal, puppy or cat
3. 50 year old woman's love for a female cousin who is very bright and a privilege to talk and listen to but who lives 1900 miles away
4. love of a male college student, a comfortable homey kind of love, for a piecc of artwork that hangs above a friend's couch in her apartment . . . that suddenly disappears
5. love of an older woman for a gentleman (maybe he has trouble walking) that she brings meals to thru "meals on wheels"
6. love of a high school student for an older who thinks he is okay, but not boyfriend material
7. love of a man for a business, construction - maybe, that he has been involved with all his life
8. love of a person for a building that represents his highest ideals - a lawyer for a court building
9. a woman's love of beautiful things to adorn herself with - clothes, jewelry, makeup
10. a man's love of being the center of attention -- quarterback, singles tennis player, etc
11. a person's love of God
12. a person's love of the trappings of religion that make her feel comfortable, like the long extemporaneous prayers I grew up with in the Baptist church, the women in all their finery, the children dressed up like little dolls, the pews made of wood (justice) but with seat cushions (mercy)
13. a girl's love for the first car she was given by her father, a convertible muscle car that spelled independence
14. love of an old, decrepit Golden Retriever for a feisty (and always cold) dachshund puppy who wants to alternately play and snuggle
    
15. love of an older woman's body (used to being pushed, pulled, exercised, made-up, etc) for yoga, a discipline of listening to the needs of the body and treating it respectfully
16. love of a creature for its homespace (like Maxie and her crate)
17. the way a piece of paper adores the pen that writes on it
18. the love of a person, criminal maybe, for the key to his safety deposit box, the symbol of the security represented by the money/valuables stored in the box
19. the (twisted) love of a boss for a junior employee who doesn't know his own worth that is very valuable to the company
20. the love of a young for a piece of jewelry that her mother owns that will be given to the on a significant birthday/for a significant event
21. the love of a wannabe writer for stories that affirm that life has meaning, that encourage people, that redeem even as they tell stories of redemption
22. the love of ayounger woman, recently married, for an aunt who is everything her mother isn't --- at least she thinks she is -- honest, cool, elegant, tall and thin, wealthy
23. the love of a teenager for her mother's boyfriend -- he is attentive, charming, very masculine, entertaining -- unfortunately for the teenager, he is also a e
24. the love of a woman for her psychiatrist
25. 
    

50 Tomorrow

Today is the last day of my life that I will spend being less than 50 years old.

In case you hadn't noticed, 50 year-olds are old. They are no longer young. Of course, I have a son who will turn 21 in 6 months. Many friends my age have grandchildren.

But for me, tomorrow is a day I'd just as soon never get to.

I'm not sure why. Oh, yes I am. On my 40th birthday, I could reasonably expect that I still had half of my life ahead of me. (It was an optimistic view, but still in the realm of the rational).

On my 50th birthday, I have to admit that it is more than half over. The end is now closer than the beginning. And thoughts of that end have me unnerved. I won't say frightened, because I am not making choices based on that fear. I am not desperately seeking some fountain of youth, or some religion/mysticism that promises a certainty that is patently unattainable.

I am worried. But I think that that worry is, at heart, a good thing. For about 15 years of my life (from age 15 - 30), death was no real threat. There wasn't, at that point, enough real joy in my life that I would have been distressed by leaving it behind.

Somewhere between 35 and 40 life got VERY good. So good, that it is hard to imagine a heaven that, for me personally, is better. The kingdom of heaven is near, very near to me.

In the meantime, my honesty about how big God would need to be to be God of the known (and unknown) world has made it harder for me to conceive of God. On a day to day basis, I still depend on God. It is sort of like my feelings about airplanes - I use them, I expect them to work. But I don't really believe in them. How could anything that big (and heavy) really stay suspended in AIR!! Hello, it just doesn't make sense.

Like it or not, I am stuck with God and stuck with being 49 and 364/365ths.

So, 50, ready or not . . . here I come.